


Tomorrow There'll Be Sunshine

by roseandheather



Category: Code Black (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6156193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandheather/pseuds/roseandheather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leanne carries daisies in her wedding bouquet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow There'll Be Sunshine

Leanne carries daisies in her wedding bouquet.

They're not the only flowers she carries, of course. In among the cheerful yellow and white are scattered tea roses, white violets, a scattering of yellow tulips, and a single sprig of forget-me-nots; "Orange blossoms are for the young," she'd said, with a bittersweet smile, "and not for me."

"Why daisies?" asks Christa curiously, and justifiably so; they're not a typical wedding flower, in any sense of the word.

But then, this is not a typical wedding.

_Gina loved daisies. She said they were uncomplicated, but wild._

Leanne just shakes her head. The message is for him, and him alone. 

_I never got to say goodbye._

_Neither did I._

She walks down the aisle alone. Jesse had offered, but she was no longer a glowing bride, fresh out of medical school wearing snowy white on her father's arm. Today she's in pale blue, as though someone had stained the loose, swirling fabric with the color of the sky, and she's barefoot in the sand.

He catches sight of her at the end of the aisle and he smiles, small and private, only for her. She knows the laugh lines that will be fanning from the corners of his eyes, knows the light that will be shining in sparkling grey. The linen of his suit is a little rumpled, but somehow, that only makes him more beautiful.

"Daisies?" he whispers when she reaches him, reaching out to brush the petals with one tentative finger, and she rubs the back of his other hand with her thumb where it's clasped in hers.

"In memory of love lost," she answers, just as softly, and thinks she might have seen a tear sparkling in his eyes.

He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to. He understands, and it's enough.

"Dearly Beloved," says Rollie's voice, and she turns to face her future.

~*~

Long after the ceremony is over, she can only remember snatches. Ed's voice, promising to "love, honor, and cherish"; her own, swearing "until death us do part," and hoping that this time, she'll go first.

" _Edward James, do you take Leanne Marie..."_

 _"I, Leanne Marie, take thee, Edward James..._ "

His smile hasn't dimmed, not in all the long hours since he first saw her. He never has been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and she knows more than a few of her colleagues - _my friends,_ she thinks, with a fresh shock of wonder - who think him stuffy. But there is nothing stuffy about the way he kisses her now, hand coming up to thread through her loose curls, nor in the way they took one daisy each from her bouquet and stripped the petals, tossing them one by one into the frothing waves of the ocean.

"For what we had," she'd said, watching the petals be carried away on the wind.

"And for what we have," he'd murmured, and kissed her hand with an old-fashioned gallantry that still weakens her knees.

This is why she loves him, she thinks; because he knows her grief as she knows his, and knows, too, that it doesn't mean she loves him any less.

~*~

An hour after that, they're standing by the cake, watching the others dance. Angus spins Malaya around the floor with more flair than skill; Neal and Christa move like they're one person, lost in each other's eyes, with a grace Leanne can only be a little envious of. Mario and Grace seem to be chatting more than dancing, and whatever it is Mike and Amy are conspiring about, she doesn't want to know.

"Do you want to make a show of this?" he enquires, touching one of the sea-green icing peaks on the ocean-blue cake.

"Not particularly." She doesn't look at him; she doesn't need to. His hands unerringly fold around hers, which are folded around the knife handle in turn, and she cuts the cake with no one the wiser.

Unable to resist, she smears a little icing at the corner of his mouth, then kisses it away. He objects by smearing some more at the tip of her middle finger, then drawing it into his mouth; by the time he's licked it clean, her cheeks are flushed hot and his eyes are dark and wicked.

"Hey!" says Mike, accusingly. "You've already cut it! Not fair!"

"You snooze, you lose," Leanne retorts, and ducks the napkin he tosses her way.

Ed slides his arms around her waist, hugs her back against his chest, and kisses the crown of her hair with a contented sigh she feels more than hears.

"When can we get out of here?" he murmurs in her ear, and she can't stop the shiver.

"As soon as everyone has cake," she whispers conspiratorially. "That should be a sufficient distraction."

"Never let it be said I don't like you for your brains," he says lowly, but the slide of his hand to her hip leaves her pretty sure that he likes her for quite a bit more than that.

They sneak away laughing like teenagers, running through the halls of the hotel until they collapse against the door of their room, breathless and giddy. The balcony doors are  open and a sea breeze blows through, giving the whole room the scent of the ocean, and there's no one on the beach to see them as she pushes the jacket off his shoulders. He undoes the tie of her halter dress and it falls around her hips; her fingers are already working at his buttons when it drifts to the floor, unheeded.

The sun blazes out over the water and seems to bleed into her hair, the brown turning russet and gold in the sunset. Spread across the pillow, glowing as though someone's set it afire, it tangles in his fingers as she reaches up and draws him fiercely to her.

~*~

They wake with the sunrise, the curtains fluttering in the breeze, the morning still cool in the first rays of dawn. There's no sun over the Pacific, of course, but that only makes the shadows of her body and his more interesting; and if last night was the sunset and blazing color, this is moonlight and morning, pastels and cool breezes and tangling themselves together under the sheets to stay warm.

"Morning," he whispers, and there's that smile again; laugh lines and sparkling eyes, and something that's only for her.

"Morning," she says, her voice low and husky, her hair falling in tangled silken strands down over her shoulder.

Never looking away, he reaches for the nightstand. Before she can ask, though, his fingers are brushing over her temple, and she reaches up, wondering.

Still smiling, he tucks the daisy behind her ear. The petals are sleek and cool where they brush the corners of her eyes, and the wild curls of her hair twine around the stem, keeping it in place.

"You look beautiful," he says, and brushes his fingers over her cheek.

Lifting the hand not bracing her weight, she captures his hand at her face, pressing it to her skin, and turns her cheek into the contact. Her eyes flutter shut, and when his thumb brushes over her lips, she kisses it with a tenderness she'd once thought she'd forgotten.

On the bedside table, a clutch of daisies blooms in a vase, petals dancing in the breeze.

In a few hours, she might even notice them.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from and I'm not sorry.
> 
> Those of you curious about the reason for the other flowers in Leanne's bouquet should check out [this page](http://thelanguageofflowers.com/).


End file.
